I don't know how many of you are out there right now, since it's so close to Christmas and everything and you're probably shopping--but, consider this something to read on your downtime from the frenetic pace of the holidays!
I give you...the next part!
Jungle Paradise Part Five
Rated: PG
“Malaria? Are you sure? Who gets malaria anymore?” Jack asked, unable to disguise the panic in his voice as he and the tribesman carried MacGyver’s stretcher.
“It is sadly quite common to these parts,” the tribesman said in his measured English. “I am the healer for my village, and I have seen it claim many of my people.”
They reached the tribesman’s village, humble and surrounded by small, neat, and sturdy straw huts. The tribesman took the lead, motioning for Jack to follow him towards a larger hut in the center of the village. Others in the village stared at the arrival of the strange American and his stricken friend in curiosity as well as pity, speaking to each other in hushed, grave tones, the terror in their eyes revealing that they already knew what afflicted the sick man lying on the stretcher. Jack and the elder tribesman paid little attention to them as they moved MacGyver inside the hut, placing him on the dirt floor and loosening the vines strapping him to the stretcher. The tribesman pushed the sleeping bag down so he could perform a more thorough examination of MacGyver, feeling every part of his burning body with his hands and making silent observations.
“Is there anything you can do for him?” Jack asked.
“How long has he been this way?” The tribesman asked, not looking up, focusing entirely on MacGyver.
“I don’t know…days.”
MacGyver stirred, weakly propping himself up and trembling. His half-open eyes showed he wasn’t fully conscious as he began hacking again, trying to vomit. Some clear liquid escaped his lips and dropped to the floor, turning it dark, but little else came out, his stomach nearly empty. Collapsing back to the ground and gasping, he opened his eyes more fully, searching the hut, looking bewildered. He began mumbling unconnected, incoherent phrases, his words jumbled and nonsensical. As he continued his fevered babbling, he groped at the air with his outstretched, shaking hand as if reaching for something, his eyes glassy and unfocused, drifting.
“It’s okay, Mac, I’m here,” Jack said, taking his hand. It felt as if it was on fire. “You’re going to be fine now. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“ Mmmph….Mapippnfoipongewo,” MacGyver said, as if speaking some unusual language.
He was lost in his feverish delirium, not seeing or relating to anything around him. His movements became more agitated, and soon he yanked his hand away from Jack and began flopping around, arching his back and jutting his tightly clenched jaw in another seizure. This time, the convulsions were brief and not as violent, but they were still enough to send him back into unconsciousness as he slumped back to the ground, surrendering, his breathing heavy and more sweat trickling down his face. The tribesman dabbed him with a cloth.
“It is as I feared,” he said. “It is a serious case.”
Jack looked around the hut. Various dried plants and flowers hung from the walls, along with wooden jars containing all kinds of medicinal powders and potions, symbols of the healer’s trade. He had heard stories about how researchers were seeking cures for diseases in the rainforest, looking to the local plant life for possible new, miracle drugs that promised the end of everything from cancer to AIDS and gave hope to the ailing around the world. He wondered if anything contained in the healer’s hut would provide similar hope to MacGyver’s desperate situation. There had to be a wonder drug among his things somewhere, he just knew it. If he hadn’t been so concerned for his friend’s welfare, the entrepreneurial side of his personality would have had him planning on marketing the stuff and earning a massive fortune, but on that day, all he wanted was to see his friend live. He didn’t even care about the treasure he had come to find anymore. It was a distant, unimportant memory.
“Surely, you’ve got something to help him,” he said. “Some powerful drug made of the plants here that could wipe this thing out completely.”
The tribesman smiled sadly. “It is not that simple,” he said. “If I had any such medicine, none of my people would have succumbed to the blood curse this past year.” He looked down at MacGyver. “I am afraid it will take much more than that, possibly more than what I have.”
“Please,” Jack said, suppressing his tears and looking down at MacGyver’s crumpled, pale body, thinking he looked so small and vulnerable from where he stood. “Just do what you can to help him.”
The tribesman bowed his head slightly. “I will do my best,” he said, “but there is still the risk that he may die.”
Jack closed his eyes, squeezing out the tears. “Just try,” he whispered. “Please. He’s my friend.”
***
As the healer attempted to work on MacGyver, Jack went outside the hut, partly to allow the healer space to do what he needed but also because he couldn’t bear to see MacGyver anymore, feeling completely inconsolable. It was as if someone had stolen his healthy, vibrant friend and replaced him with the wretchedly ill man inside the hut, and it had all happened so rapidly. Within days, MacGyver’s essence faded, leaving him dependent on Jack for survival, and Jack wasn’t used to being in the role of rescuer. He had always relied on MacGyver to come up with the solution, never before taking on a responsibility as monumental as the one he faced now. He knew he wasn’t doing as well as he would have liked. If he had fallen ill with malaria instead, MacGyver probably would have already found a route home or would have even brought some quinine along to reduce the symptoms of the disease, always prepared for anything. Jack could never think that way and was never that organized, and subsequently MacGyver was now barely alive.
He knew he had tried his best, but it wasn’t enough. The progression of the disease was too severe and uncontrollable, and all he knew to do was to try to keep Mac drinking fluids. He was surprised MacGyver had survived as long as he had in his incapable hands, feeling completely ineffective and incompetent. That MacGyver lived at all was probably due more to his own perseverance and stubborn tenacity to cling to life than any method he had tried. He never felt more like a complete, worthless failure in his life. His friend was dying as a result of another fruitless, greedy quest to find some lousy treasure. None of it seemed worth it anymore. All at once he realized the stupidity of his actions that had resulted in MacGyver’s declining health, and he never felt guiltier, knowing that if MacGyver did die, he would never be able to forgive himself.
Shouts from the nearby tribe’s people signaled the arrival of another American to the village, but Jack Dalton didn’t notice, too consumed by his own dark, disconsolate thoughts, hanging his head and staring blankly at the ground. The sounds of footsteps approaching him barely registered, and he didn’t know anyone was standing in front of him until a man spoke in English.
“Are you with The Phoenix Foundation?” The man asked.
Looking up from his dejected stance for the first time, Jack saw that the man standing before him was also American, his blonde hair glinting in the sunlight.
“No,” he said. “I’m…a tourist…just passing through..” he mumbled, and then paused. “Wait a minute. Did you say Phoenix Foundation?” He asked.
“Yes I did. Are you familiar with the organization?”
“Of course I am. My friend MacGyver works there.”
“MacGyver…yes, I’ve heard of him. Pete Thornton’s top man, right? He’s somewhat of a legend around our offices.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Chris Dunn,” he said.
“Jack Dalton.”
The two men shook hands.
Chris smiled broadly and looked around the village and the surrounding rainforest. “I’ve been sent here to help the local tribes combat deforestation of their land, and I’m also providing them with healthcare and education,” he said.
Jack’s despondent eyes lit up when he heard that. “Are you a doctor?” He asked.
“Well, I have medical training, but…”
“Come on, I need your help,” Jack said, taking his hand and leading him inside the healer’s hut.
Surprised by their sudden appearance, the healer paused, his bony hand on a pestle and a bowl for grinding his special herbs and plants.
“Jack, what are we doing? What’s going on?” Chris asked. He stopped when he saw MacGyver, looking pale and lifeless on the floor. He looked back up at the healer and Jack, horrified.
“He is very ill,” the healer said to Chris. “He has malaria.”
“Oh my God,” Chris said. He knelt down close to MacGyver. He recognized his appearance, seeing him in the halls of The Phoenix Foundation and in Pete’s office on occasion. “This is MacGyver,” he said, looking up at Jack with wide eyes. “What’s he doing here? Was he sent here to help me?”
“I’m afraid not,” Jack said. “He was with me. We were just…exploring.” He felt too embarrassed to tell Chris the real reason—that he was hunting for some lost treasure and that MacGyver had unwillingly come on the trip with him.
Chris examined him, feeling his pulse and taking his body temperature with a thermometer strip that he attached to MacGyver’s forehead. When he saw the reading, he was shocked. “He is burning up. His body temperature is 107 degrees—a high-grade fever,” he said. “His pulse is irregular as well. Has he been having convulsions?”
Jack nodded.
Chris shook his head, not believing the devastating condition MacGyver was in at that point, never seeing anyone look as deathly ill as he did at that moment. He listened as MacGyver moaned and stirred, then fell silent and still again. “This is one of the most severe cases of malaria I’ve seen,” he said.
Jack closed his eyes, not wanting to hear such a diagnosis. MacGyver couldn’t afford to die—his contributions to the world were far too important, and Jack knew how insignificant his role in the world was in comparison, wasting his life on useless ventures and the lure of profits that never surfaced. He should have been the one suffering from malaria, not MacGyver. MacGyver was a valuable asset to The Phoenix Foundation, Pete’s top man. He on the other hand was a nobody who had put this great man—his friend—in danger.
“I am working on some medicine for him,” the healer said.
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Chris said, feeling MacGyver’s erratic pulse throbbing beneath his hot skin one more time. “He needs medical attention from a hospital immediately. He’s dying.”
To be continued…
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."
--Henry David Thoreau
brains+brawn+beauty+personality=MacGyver
